Broken Crown
by MichelleLeahhh
Summary: Your betrothal to Thor was convenient- brokered as an alliance between two powerful families. Your marriage to Loki was... unimaginable. And yet, here you are, standing at the alter promising yourself to the God of Lies, Mischief, and Chaos. With no family or allies, you navigate Asgard entangled in a treasonous plot. Fueled by revenge, and blinded by hatred, you'll do anything
1. Timshel - The Wedding

You refuse to cry on your wedding day.

There's a vulgar knock at your bedchamber door, eradicating the mantra that was repeating in your head.

 _Do not cry._

The door opens to reveal an aged nurse. "M'lady," she formally curtsies and greets you with a warm smile on her face.

 _Do not cry._

You acknowledge the woman with a slight nod and even smaller frown. The type of frown that is typical of your home: empty and cold. Like the ruined castles and Old Gods themselves.

 _Do not cry._

Sitting in front of the vanity, you fidget stiffly in your new emerald gown. As you hunch over, the corset pulls tightly on your ribs, turning your scowl into a grimace.

 _This will pass._

As the woman tepidly makes her way over, delight surges through your veins when she ungracefully steps on the hearth. Clearly, she's not a true Æsir. She's probably nothing more than a well-bred Asgardian, plucked right from the streets. After all, a traitor's daughter is not worthy of a proper handmaiden. Even if you are to marry the prince against your will.

And soon your harsh judgement against the woman, your glee for her limitations, your vapid hate, retreats. It's not her fault you're here.

The woman stands behind you, lightly resting her wrinkled hands on your shoulders.

"Are you nervous, M'lady?" Her aged, raspy voice asks, oblivious to the emptiness within your eyes.

"Of course not, I love the Prince," You lie with a dry mouth, praying that the woman cannot hear the emptiness that seeps out.

A similar lie spews from her mouth, "And that Asgardian loves you."

"Asgardian… or Jötunn?" You implicate defiantly, staring at the woman through the foggy mirror with a spiteful smirk on your face. This sneer isn't like Vanaheim or the cold, this is laced with stubbornness and resistance that sprouts from deep within your soul.

The nurse's smile falls at the corners as her hands move to your hair. Pulling roughly on the ends, she changes the subject. "You have such beautiful hair. I am tempted to style it in the _Asgardian_ way." Your heart plummets as the woman begins to pile the strands in a foreign way; being stripped of your dignity, heritage, and family all over again.

Then the woman sighs, letting your hair drop. "But the Vanaheim braids look so proper on you. After all, you look exactly like your father."

And with that small statement, your calm and collected demeanor shatters like the remnants of the heart that once resided in your chest. How dare she talk about him. He is yours, the last remnant of your past that meant something.

You both sit in silence as the woman deftly braids your hair in the formal Vanir style, while humming a faintly familiar tune. You wish that you don't know it. You wish that you aren't becoming like them. You wish your hold on the past could envelope you and shield you from this satire. You wish your mother was here.

Stop.

Wipe the thoughts of _them_ from your memory. It'll be easier that way.

"Please stop," You whisper, letting your eyelids flutter shut as a last defense to keep tears away.

The woman quiets, finishing your hair. "Did your mother tell you what to expect for tonight?"

Something changes within you as you snap, "I do not have a mother."

"Not anymore," she says, taking a pin from the apron tied around her waist. "Do not expect too much. Even if his rumored reputation is true. A woman's first time is never pleasant."

"What makes you think it will be my first time?" You challenge, holding your chin high.

When putting the pin in your hair, the woman pricks your scalp, making you wince slightly. "You have a sharp tongue, M'lady. One that is best to be dulled," she warns.

The nurse reaches for your hand and pulls you to your feet, flaming the fires within you. Touching you as if it is allowed, as if she's there to be your confidant. Your second mother. The truth is simple though, you're alone and she cannot make you feel otherwise. Alone and, yet, formidable.

The lady goes back to humming the dreadful tune from earlier, only making your resolve stronger.

You clench your fists to fight the temper that is sure to exude from your being. The woman pulls a golden veil over your head then grabs your clamped hands, "Remember who the real enemy is, my dear."

Your gaze snaps to the woman's eyes, shocked to find her creased eyes are colored like your own. Before compassion could take hold, you pull away, pivoting to look out the window as the birds sing. Desperately, you wish to sprout wings and leave this place.

The woman then continues to the door humming the tune as if it means something. She turns at the door back to face you. "Lang Lewe Vanir."

 _Long live Vanaheim._

* * *

Your head swivels sharply only to find the door shut. The woman disappears, leaving you alone with only terrorizing memories.

"I do not want to marry the Prince," You spat to your father, folding arms over your chest.

"Sweetheart," father sighed, sitting on his chair in the corner of the room. "Sometimes there are things you must do for the sake of your people. Even if you do not want to do it."

You shook your head in utter disbelief. Tears welled, threatening to spill from your eyes. This wasn't what you planned as a child. You planned for skinned knees and dirty hemlines, you imagined the woods and trees and isolated solace. Not Asgardian buildings and packed streets and political games.

"Please do not make me," you whispered.

When he moved and sat next to you on the bed, you fell into his side, finding comfort as his arms circled your shoulders. "I cannot make you do anything, but I can urge you to do what is right and this is it." His hand smoothed over your hair and tilts your head to meet his eyes.

He looked tired. The skin around his faded eyes fold and crease like antique pages. In that moment, you didn't think of your people. Of the Vanir who would prosper from this. You thought of him. Of the tiredness and age that had overwhelmed him in recent months. That was why you would do this.

"Do you truly think Thor would make a good king, father?"

His smile grew for a small moment, "I do."

If only he said the opposite, if only he told you the truth. You would have been more careful then. And maybe, just maybe, then he'd still be alive and you wouldn't be alone.

* * *

Two rasps on the door make your nervous stomach plummet and a steely resolve take its place.

The door opens to reveal _him_. "They thought you would prefer to have a familiar face to deliver you." The guard gestures, to himself. Your lips pull down as you stay rooted in place, hating the man in front of you.

He should not be here. He should be dead too.

"Ready, _Princess_?" He asks, oblivious to the violent demise you wish upon him and your title.

You were kept in a secret building, far from Court. As if a close proximity to court was toxic. Like you could disrupt the natural order of Asgardian principles if you dared stay in the same halls as your future husband.

With one last glance in the mirror, you set your lips into a familiar frown and breeze past him ready to enter the Great Temple of Æsir.

Your hands grasped your dress if only to keep them from shaking. If they want you, they can have you, but they'd never know you. They'd have your name, your body, but they'd never have your soul. Vanaheim would know that, and no political agreement could assuage the unrest there. They would keep fighting.

The halls on the way out of your royal apartment are only lined with stones and tapestries, nothing like the halls you roamed as a child. Would you ever rove through your childhood home again? Most likely not.

You are escorted to an ornate carriage, locking you in like a caged bird.

A heady scent assaults your nose as you take in the plush green and gold velvet that surrounds you. The truth chokes you then: You are about to be property of an Odinson.

People line the streets on the way to the temple, waving uncontrollably and yelling your name over and over again.

When your carriage finally delivers you to the temple, and you wait for your disloyal escort to open the door. After a moment of fumbling with the keys, you are released from your cage. You exhale a breath and step outside only to hear that while some of the crowd cheers, others hiss.

 _Traitor_.

They don't know who the real traitors are.

The real traitors are in the Temple.

* * *

"You're beautiful," mother said, looking you over through the mirror, as her hands finished your braid. "I've never seen a more beautiful Princess in the world. Or woman for that matter."

"You have to say that," you smiled, rolling your eyes and turning away from your reflection to face her, wishing you had an ounce of her famed beauty.

"I cannot believe you agreed to this," she stated, pride dripping from her face. You swallowed the fear that threatened to peel away your resolve. "You truly are your father's daughter."

Your eyes dropped to look past her out the window, shame creeping through you before glancing back her way. "I am your daughter too." Still, the words stung with what was not said. If she had asked you, you'd have never consented.

A heavy silence fell upon you.

"He's handsome, don't you think?" She coyly said, raising a manicured eyebrow in your direction.

A heat flamed your cheeks. Thor _was_ handsome. With flowing blonde hair, muscular arms, and sharp blue eyes, there was only one way to describe him - unapproachably handsome. He truly was lightening, a specimen that attracted all eyes in the room. You would never be able to hide in plain sight again, at least not by his side. That alone suffocated you.

"Mother…" You trailed off, biting your lip to keep from laughing.

"You are lucky. Just think," Your mother chuckled, and upon understanding your awkward reaction, pushed an escaped lock of hair behind your ear. "You could be betrothed to his brother."

Your gaze drops, thinking about the God of Mischief. If Thor was unapproachable, his brother was intimidating. Untrustworthy. Chaotic. An unexplainable shiver ran through you at the mere thought of being intimate with him in the way you would with Thor. And before you had a moment to delve into the meaning of your body's reaction, your mother continued.

"Don't worry, darling, your paths will rarely cross."

* * *

A choir announces your arrival as the doors to the temple open. Hundreds of Asgardians have gathered for what they believe to be a joyous celebration. If only.

There is no father to walk you down the aisle, no mother to fuss over your train, just you and your future waiting at the end of the pathway.

Each step you take causes your heart to pound. You see him there, looming in a gold horned helmet and an intricate patchwork of green and black leather.

Intimidating. Chaotic. Untrustworthy. This is not who you were promised to marry. He is not Thor.

When you finally step in front of him, lifting your hand waiting for him to accept you, he barely spares you a glance before taking your palm in his.

A startling shudder runs through you at the first touch. His skin is ice, causing a spark to freeze its way through your skin.

He guides you up the alter, rotating so you are face to face. Hastily, he pulls the other hand from your side so both of your hands are clasped in his. And as the Goddess of Oaths begins to list promises you are to swear, you chance a look at him. At Loki.

Loki does not look at you, not once during the entire ceremony. His resentment is evident; a clenched jaw, pursed lips, violent green eyes. It's wafting off of him and you can do nothing but absorb it.

It mutates inside you until only bitterness is left in your mouth. Perhaps he was forced into this as much as you were.

The Goddess summons a woven rope from air, a handfasting. Three chords are pleated: Burgundy for love, Gold for unity, and Green for fertility. She wraps the rope around your embraced hands, explaining its significance and ties it tightly. Like your hands, your lives are now bound together of your own free will.

Before you even know what is happening, Loki is emotionlessly listing commitments.

"I, Prince Loki of Asgard, God of Mischeif, Odinson," he pauses, pinning a cold glance to Odin standing as witness to the side, then forces his head towards you again. "Pledge to provide and care for you in weariness and doubt. I will forsake all others, to respect you in strength and wisdom for my remaining days."

As he concludes, some of the crowd whispers. No doubt surprised that the Prince, Trickster, God of Mischief, has actually condemned himself to a life with you. That he didn't pawn his way out of this commitment.

"I," you begin only to halt immediately, panic striking through you. Were you still royalty if your family was found guilty of treason? Were you still a crowned princess, or was the title ripped from you like your family was?

Suddenly, Loki's hand squeezes yours, breaking you from your reverie. Your gaze locks on him, though he still looks past you, his features have softened slightly. "I pledge to obey and trust you in weariness and doubt. I will commit myself to you, forsaking all others in respect of your strength and wisdom for my remaining days."

Your eyes drop to the ropes, when, by your surprise, the rope seemingly glistens as if it is absorbing the vows.

Odin steps forward and nimbly removes the binding with a flick of his wrist. You watch as Loki's face hardens when his father's hands hover over his own, tense and waiting for a touch that never comes.

His voice booms loudly through the walls, "Allow the Gods from Valhalla bless this union."

With that cue, Loki removes his hands from yours and reach for your veil. You hold your breath as fear returns, realizing for the first time how calm his touch made you. As he lifts the golden tulle over your head, you keep your eyes trained on his face waiting for him to look at you. When he finally does, his eyes gloss over with dullness. It is like he isn't even in front of you.

Like you're not in front of him.

As Odin says the last condemning words, Loki's chilled fingers grasp your chin and he tilts your head closer. When he leans down, he pauses a mere inch from your face and visibly swallows, allowing his eyes a moment to rove over your skin. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips. His breath fans against your mouth. Your eyelids shut automatically.

This will be easier in darkness.

For a second, you swear that Loki's fingers trace a comforting design on your cheek. In truth, it was probably your imagination.

Then his lips slant over yours. Chilling. Chastely. Somewhere beyond this moment, a crowd begins to cheer and clap. Though, you're too distracted to even lend them a thought.

His fingers press into your jaw, hard, imploring your mouth to move against his, but before you even get the chance to, he retreats and straightens, leaving you wanting. You release a stuttering breath as you open your eyes.

Then, he swiftly turns to face the crowd, pulling your hand in his and encouraging you to mimic his position. It gives you the first moment to look at them. Cheering, crying, shocked.

You are one of them now.

* * *

Please leave love, it helps Loki inspire me faster

Come annoy me on Tumblr: BottledMichelle


	2. Cleopatra - The Feast

**Chapter 2**

* * *

You've lost count of how many drinks Loki has had.

Though you began the feast by each other's side, he has since moved to the far-right of hall drinking with a group of people surrounding him. His normally sullen face is alight with mischievous stories and the animated crowd surrounding him hang on his every detailed word. Your seat's height at the head-table gives you the perfect vantage point to watch him. His green eyes are bright, his pale skin flushed, and his dark hair falls in unruly waves to his shoulders. It hits you now, your husband and you... are opposites.

While he continuously refills his goblet, your honey colored wine remains untouched. While he's surrounded by people, you're alone. While he hasn't stopped speaking since the stroll to the Great Hall, you are partial to your silence.

You are happy to blissfully live at the edge of the crowd. More than.

Except now you're anything but a shadow on the wall. The eyes in the hall dance to you every few moments, gauging you, judging you. Being the center of everyone's attentions causes your stomach to knot in tangled threads. Their gazes are heavy, their whispers strike through your armor. And yet, it's like you're in a glass window, not one of them have approached you.

How much longer will this last?

A raucous laughter breaks you from your internal panic.

Loki is thriving off of the attention. Women close to him smile flirtatiously, caressing his arm, as he gives them all divided attention. Now that he's married, he has become an alluring prize for any type of companion.

xXxXx

After the ceremony, you and Loki drifted arm-in-arm through a sectioned off path toward the Great Hall for a feast in honor of your nuptials. People lined the streets, calling for both of your attentions. And, while the trickster next to you adopted a charming façade to acknowledge the masses, you only stared forward with a hollow expression.

It's not like anyone really wanted _your_ attention anyway. They wanted his.

"Smile, Pet," Loki whispered in your ear, his breath fanning over your face.

His words shocked you. So, you snapped your gaze to him, your eyebrows furrowed at the realization that he was actually speaking to you. He chuckled at your expression and pushed an escaped lock of hair behind your ear. The crowd clapped when Loki leaned closer, his hand gliding up to stroke your cheek.

"Shall we give into their desire?" He asked, his voice dripping with mockery as his eyes bore into your own. He was so close that you could feel the cold wafting from his skin, sending a shiver down your back.

Before you could respond, his lips molded against yours. His fingers again seized your jaw. But this time, before he could end it, you kissed him back. Your lips surged in an unpracticed motion, and his mouth guided your own. Suddenly his hold on your jaw tightened and manipulated your lips to separate.

He took advantage, pulling your lips between his own as his hands slithered to the back of your head. He tugged roughly on your hair and his teeth bit down on your flesh, causing you to whimper. A wanting pooled in your core. He pulled away at the sound, his teeth scraping your bottom lip before releasing you. You opened your eyes to find his charming expression twisted into one of marbled, cruel desire.

"Good girl," he praised.

Then Loki broke eye contact and turned towards the crowd acting with an expert caricature of decency. The crowd cheered, a grin graced his face. But you couldn't hear them. All you could hear was the pulsing beat of your heart, amplified by the desire he left thrumming through your veins.

It was the first uninhibited emotion you felt the entire day.

xXxXx

"My lady." You peer to your left, only to be disappointed by what you find.

Thor stands there, greeting you with a small, careful smile; as if he were approaching a wild animal.

"My prince," you address him with a practiced frown of your own, refusing to stand from your chair.

He takes a seat on your right and you turn to face him. "You look radiant today, matrimony suits you," he compliments.

The Prince's words prompt a pit to form in your stomach. "You are too kind," your response falls flat, taciturn. "You, and the Allfather."

Your gaze finds Odin over Thor's shoulder. He is seated in the highest chair at the center of the table with Frigga, the Allmother, at his side. She's like you, a descendent of Vanaheim, a successful wedded alliance.

You doubt you will be as loved as she - loved by the people, her children, her husband. As it is, you know Odin's feelings towards Loki have always been lackluster, he's always pushed your husband to the side and perched Thor on unreachable pedestals. You understand, Thor is kind, enthralling, protective, and harmless. Always comfortable with attention, and while Loki thrives under it, Thor is freely given it.

Thor sighs slowly at your reserved expression. "Surely you must know…" he begins lost in thought. "That if there was something I could have done to prevent this situation, I would have."

Your parents' ghosts swim in your head. Surely death is a solution to this hell - he could have provided that for you too.

"Suddenly you're above murder?" You ask, your eyes widening from shock as the words slip through your mouth. It was one thing to disrespect the future king in your head, it was a death sentence to do so out loud, surrounded by so many nobles. Maybe that is why you said it. Death would be easy. Still, death isn't an option. You're too important - the future of Vanaheim is now married to an Asgardian Prince.

"Please forgive me," you quickly amend. "I didn't mean to- "

Thor's hand covers your own and shakes his head, cutting you off. "There is nothing to forgive. If anything, my mercy…" he trails off when a shadow casts over you and an icy hand rests on your shoulder.

"Brother," Thor says, removing his hand from yours and standing.

"Please continue," Loki says with false pleasantries, applying weight to his grasp. Your head falls in submission to his presence, already wishing you could remove yourself from here.

"Have a drink with us, Loki," Thor gestures to the pitcher on the table.

Loki ignores the comment, "What does my brother have to forgive?" Neither of you move to explain, which only makes Loki's anger fester. "Speak!" He demands harshly, his voice raising along with his temper.

Thor begins to open his mouth when you answer, "Nothing," you admit, hoping to assuage his anger, but still don't look up from your lap. "I simply spoke out of turn."

"How eloquently put," he snarls.

Thor places a gentle hand on Loki's arm to quiet him. "Calm yourself, brother. It was nothing but a pleasantry."

Loki's expression reeks of resentment and withdraws his hand from your shoulder. You release the breath you had no idea you were holding as Thor takes a step back from his brother. Loki reaches to the table for the pitcher and fills his cup, then turns to face the audience of people still in the Great Hall.

"A toast," he exclaims in a booming voice to the people. All gazes suddenly turn to you three. Loki's hand casually returns to your shoulder, but in a similarly menacing way. "Stand, _my_ sweet," he insists and roughly pulls you out of your seat to stand next to him. His hand slinks to your waist taking a possessive hold of you, pulling you tightly to his side, nearly suffocating you. As your heart begins to race with anxiety, you refuse to let him know how he's affecting you. "To my lovely wife, always speaking in an elegant, merciful decorum. And to my brother," Loki pauses as tension grows in the air.

"Loki," Thor warns quietly, giving his brother a dark look. Loki responds with a tighter grip on you, making you nearly shudder in his arms. Thor notices and immediately closes his mouth.

"To my brother, kindly comforting her, while I am once again given the villainous reputation." He chuckles darkly before turning to you. "Even though _he_ is the one who forced our futures onto this course."

Suddenly, Odin stands menacingly, carefully surveilling his younger son. Loki sneers at him, with a callous glower, before turning his full attention to you again. "And finally, to our budding union. My love, I can only hope to live up to the monster you believe me to be. Perhaps, tonight, as we consummate our union."

"Enough, Loki!" Odin bellows, dropping his fist to the table.

Loki doesn't even spare him a glance as he speaks over the Allfather, caging you with his other hand on your neck and forcing you to look in his eyes, his anger, and your fear, grows with every spoken word. "And after our merciless coupling, after your mewling body lie in a spent heat on the bed, broken-in, tears spilling, think then of your Thor and his _mercy_."

The hall remains silent as his raging breath fills the air between you. He chuckles slightly before downing his cup in one swig, then slams the cup back on the table. His hand then swiftly grabs your cup and hands it to you. You hesitantly take the glass from him.

"Drink," Loki orders. He pushes your shaking hand to your lips and tilts it, forcing you to swallow.

The drink is too warm and sweet, almost making you gag, but you chug it anyway. Your eyes never leave Loki's as his gaze narrows on your lips. Some of the liquid spills from the corners of your mouth and Loki follows the trail of it down your chin before looking back to your stare.

Four mere seconds later and your cup is emptied. Loki's breath heaves as he rips the goblet from your hands and throws it to the ground, its shattering glass interrupting the silence. A silence that stretches. You dare not move. Afraid. What would he -they- do if you fled in this moment?

"Loki," Frigga says calmly from Odin's left and solemnly shakes her head. Loki faces his mother a sober look overpowering his dark features, as if he only now understands what he's done.

He looks around the hall at the silent witnesses of his outburst. A menacing smile graces his lips and he laughs maliciously as if the whole tirade was a joke.

Frigga motions to her left and before you even have a second to regain composure, you are being escorted out of the Hall.

You look back only to find Frigga approaching Loki, then the door shuts.

xXxXx

"Thus, your daughter has consented?" Odin asked your father from his throne, before wandering his gaze over to you.

Father smiled from his knelt position. "She has, my King."

Thor shifted uncomfortably from behind Odin, his blue eyes found your gaze and he sent you a comforting smile. You returned it, as if that were first of many secrets between you.

Odin laughed, his chuckle thundered through the throne room. "This is splendid news, my friend." Odin stood from his throne and gestured for father to stand. He grabs your father's neck and pulled him into a tight hug. "Our children will reunite the bloodlines. Their child will sit on both the old throne and the new." Your skin heated at the mention of future children; hopefully, they didn't expect one so soon. "It will be a true king of our realms."

Your father clasped his hand on Odin's shoulder and pulled back to look him in the eye. "I look forward to it my friend."

"Step forward my future daughter," Odin said, finally.

You picked up the skirts of your dress with steady hands and strode forward. As you reached the Allfather, you realized that your gaze was locked to Thor's. His blue eyes stared in yours, reading your thoughts that were plainly on your face - a questionable future and calm determination to make your family proud.

Finally, Odin took your hands in his. "I prayed to all the Norns to one day have a daughter as beautiful as you. I am honored to have you joining my family."

A grin graced your face as you curtsied, your palms remaining in his. "Thank you, my King."

Odin then turns to face father, "Come my friend, let us begin the festivities." He wrapped his arm around father's shoulder and guided him out of the throne room, the two barely giving you or Thor a parting.

Thor coughed slightly, walking a short pathway to you. He stopped and bowed. As the God of Thunder pulled your left hand to his lips, his beard brushed against your delicate skin, sending a rush of fluttering butterflies through you.

A giggle somehow escaped your lips as he straitened and let out a chuckle of his own. "Ah," he began, his face alight with carefree life as your eyes stuck to his. "Forgive me if that was forward. I meant no disrespect."

You shook your head. "It wasn't. After all, I feel we will grow to be more intimate than this very soon."

Your eyes grew wide as the words slithered passed your mouth. Immediately, embarrassment and shock swept through you, unbelieving that you said that aloud. You bit your lip as a measure to keep from apologizing.

Thor too looked shocked but refused to drop your hand even as you tried to pull it from his grasp.

He leaned closer and your gaze swept to his lips, the same lips that had just softly caressed your skin. "My lady," he started, leaning even closer. You wondered if he was to press them against your mouth, when suddenly a side entrance to the throne room opened.

Thor sharply shifted back and grinned largely. "Brother!"

You twisted around to see that Loki entered the room, burdened with a look of guarded sadness that quickly receded into one of false joy.

"I hear congratulations are in order."

As he began to congratulate Thor on your engagement, you studied his face. Reserved and sharped, careful from years of being eclipsed in his brother's greatness. In some ways, you felt the same, like you had lived your entire life in the shadow of what your parents had planned for you.

And when his eyes shifted to you, you knew he saw the same if even for a brief moment.

xXxXx

"Are you alright, my Lady?" The woman asks, carefully touching your arm.

You glance at her, her brown hair piled high in intricate braids. She looks vaguely familiar, like she is always on the frays of a feast, sitting near the lesser nobles. "I'm fine," you smile tensely, then add, "Thank you."

She nods in understanding, as if she knows you need the silence. She's young, you decide, her skin radiant with youth and a desirable blush on her high cheekbones. She is true Æsir, unlike the woman from this morning.

The hallways are deserted as you make your way back to your chambers. The only sound coming from either of you are your steps echoing against the stones.

After navigating a maze of halls, you both enter what is to become your new bed chambers. The room is so large, it has different parts designated for alternative practices. A fireplace and sitting area, a correspondence desk, a four posted bed, all of which are decorated in golden hues and dark oak furniture.

You find a gown hanging from an elegant room divider. Its sheer white fabric brings a blush to your face as you realize that once you put the evening gown on, it would leave little to the imagination. That was probably its intention.

Sadly, you thought, no amount of beautiful fabric would make your husband see you as anything more than a piece to play with. You aren't his princess, you are his property.

As if reading your thoughts, the maid walks around you, towards the fireplace, and fills a goblet with wine that was left for you on a table.

She straightens and hands the glass to you. Without a word, you down the drink in a very unlady-like fashion. If only mother could see you now.

"Join me," you request. Handing the glass back to her and gesturing to the second glass on the table, likely meant for Loki's imminent visit. "I do not think the Prince will be needing another drink."

The girl's eyebrows shoot up at that, before stifling a giggle.

"I don't think it would be proper." Still she turns and fills both glasses before keeping one for herself and giving you the other.

"What's your name?" You ask, bringing the drink back to your lips, not caring anymore about being proper for what's to come - for your evening with the prince.

You already learned it would not be pleasant.

"Eira, my Lady. I'm to be one of your new handmaidens."

You smile, "Well then, please call me-"

"I should really begin preparing the room." She cuts you off, putting the drink down and walking towards the hearth. "Prince Loki does not sleep much. He is partial to a fire at night and I still have to prepare you for your evening." Your stomach drops as you realize what you'll be prepared for, but instead of letting that feeling overwhelm you; you inspire a steely resolve.

She ducks her head and flutters around the room, gathering the firewood that has been stocked by the fireplace. Carefully, she arranges them into a pyramid before lighting them ablaze.

You watch her, skeptically. How would she know the Prince's preference? It's not like she is around court often, this was your first time meeting her. Then it dawns on you.

"You are familiar with Loki's night routines?"

She looks at you in fear and a blush warms its way to her cheeks. She clasps her hands in front of her as she stands in submission before you, as if waiting for you to berate her for being his courtesan.

The elder woman this morning had warned her.

 _Do not expect too much. Even if his rumored reputation is true._

"I apologize my Lady, it ended when your betrothal was announced."

Your eyelids close at her confession, realizing that you really are alone in this.

So, you nod, she is not a friend, not a companion, she is only here to prepare you for something she has done before. Everyone around you is preparing you. That's all there is.

She continues through the room, drawing down the bed, darkening the lights. You continue to sip the wine from your cup, lost in thoughts, and take a seat in front of the fireplace, staring at its flames. They dance high and warm your skin, burning your cheeks with a lick of each flicker. When you finally look to Eira, she pulls the sheer nightgown from the hanger. You fidget with your wedding gown, pulling at invisible strings as you wish to jump in the fire, become a part of it, burn away the past and smolder your future.

Instead, you take a sip as the bitter flavor travels down your throat. You do not taste it. "That'll be all," you tell her not bothering to stand, the wine has made you bold.

You don't need the dress, you don't want to please him. You want this over and if that means he needs to rip your wedding gown from your body and force himself inside you, then so be it, because you refuse to transform yourself for him.

"Would you like me to undo your hair?" She asks quietly, clearly aware of your demeanor change.

"That'll be all," you repeat, your tone solemn and cold, taking on a darker edge.

She curtsies then quickly leaves the room. And, finally, you are alone.

Not even a minute passes before there is another knock on the door. It opens before you even get a chance to react. Agitation grows within you as you realize they entered without your permission. Surely solace was a curtesy everyone deserved. You stand, but remain facing the fire, not giving the intruder a fragment of your attention. They don't deserve it.

"What?" You ask before even chancing a glance to see who it is.

"My dear, I thought you'd be happier to see me."

* * *

Please leave some love, I'm very fragile.


	3. Learn Me Right - The Wedding Night

Thanks for all the support!

* * *

"My dear, I thought you'd be happier to see me." Loki's voice taunts from the doorway.

You spin to face him as your heart plummets. How quickly was he dismissed from the Great Hall? It felt like you had only just left there, and yet here he is, casually standing in your room. As if he hadn't just spitefully announced to the realm how he intended to use you.

Loki remains dressed in formal garb, but his golden, horned helm is gone, allowing his raven hair to fall in a curtain around his face, nearly reaching his shoulders.

His sharp gaze and small grin mocks you. You refuse to let him know how nervous you are, how on edge; instead, you return his look with one pointed gaze of your own.

"I apologize. I spoke out of turn," you slyly echo your earlier sentiments. Only this time you mean it less given Loki's outburst from earlier in the evening. You lift the wine to your lips and quirk an eyebrow, taking a sip as he watches you.

He nods to the wine dangling close to your lips. "I see you started without me."

"There is more, no need to fret." You drop the glass from your lips, feeling emboldened. "In fact, your lovely paramour made sure to have all of your needs met for tonight, she even made sure there would be a fire for you."

Loki smirks slightly. "Ah, _my_ paramour. Which one should I thank?" He asks cruelly, chuckling, even as his words cause an ache - not from his open infidelity, but from what his words insinuated. You can feel the color draining from your face. You are just one of many, not even his choice. After he takes you tonight, he'll continue on with whoever is next, only returning to use you.

He takes a step towards you, making your pulse quicken. Then, before you even have a chance to properly register his presence, he's standing in front of you stealing the glass from your clutches, careful to not touch you.

"Fortunately, I have had enough." Loki says, referencing to the drink, "I think you too are nearing your limit, that is if you actually intend on enjoying our evening together."

He takes a sip, his eyes not leaving your own as he finishes the wine in one long pull. You dare not look away, entranced by the seafoam green in his eyes, and even though this is to mock you, to mortify you, it is highly erotic.

The way his orbs don't leave yours as his lips fit tightly over the glass, the way his Adam's apple ripples when swallowing the liquid. How, after he finishes, his tongue slithers out to capture the wine's remnants at the corner of his lips.

He smirks when he sees your stupor.

"Enjoyment was not one of your promises," you challenge him, lifting your chin.

"I prefer my woman wanting." He tosses the glass to the table, then commands, taking half a step back, "Remove your dress."

Your eyes widen at his demand, your heart pulsating against its cage.

He takes a stride closer to you. Your breath hitches in your throat because his chest is grazes your own. You have to crane your neck to look at him fully. Reaching forward, he runs his hand over the back of your head. An unsettling wave of electricity works over you as Loki's magic removes the veil pinned to your head and unplaits your braids, leaving your hair in waves.

"I won't ask again," he warns.

He could easily take off your clothes with a movement of his hand; but, instead, he challenges you. A part of you is humiliated, the other part is setting your skin on fire.

You reach behind and pull the laces from your back without any help. Had you not done this before, your movements would be awkward, but undressing alone was something you were used to, especially given that the laces had come loose during the day's events.

With a bite your lip, the dress slips passed your shoulders and the garment pools at your feet, leaving you dressed in only a chemise and his scrutiny.

Loki's so close, that you can feel his husky inhale as his eyes broaden and wander down your body. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, wolfishly.

Even though the fire burns just behind you, a cold draft from the rest of the room leaves a malicious trail of goosebumps up your arms and down your chest. Somehow, your body stays stoic, even as a you wrestle the urge to cover yourself with your arms. You refuse to let him see you like that, hiding, weak. You want to show him that you don't care.

Because you don't.

You don't care about anything anymore.

He hums at your courage, arms at your side, head held high. "You really are a pet, aren't you?" His voice is thick with desire. "Doing as I command."

The corners of your lips settle in a frown, waiting for his instruction. Refusing to return his ridicule.

Noble ladies are composed.

Noble ladies are chaste.

Noble ladies are wholesome.

Noble ladies do not reach out to their husbands. They do not push him away or pull him closer, even though you wanted to do both those things.

It's a disturbing, agitated feeling that warms across your skin. You want him, but you don't. And so, the only solution that lay in front of you is to remain standing, in front of him, in only a scant shift, waiting for whatever he is going to do to you.

"Get on the bed," he commands.

Shock ripples through you at this cold demand. Isn't he meant to guide you, respectfully navigate you through this? Doesn't he know that even though strength is your façade, you are nervous. Scared.

He's the God of Lies, he must know.

So, your look hardens. You take one step back, turn on your heel, and walk to the bed. Regretfully noting that he hasn't even touched you.

However cruel he is, however unforgiving, the night will not last forever. You pull back the covers, ignoring any nerves that rock your body.

"No," he stops you, rooted in the same aloof stance. "Lie on top of the covers."

You pause, torn on what to do. You always believed marital relations took place under covers, in the dark. The wine threatens to reappear from your stomach as you drop the covers to the mattress. You already knew what tonight would be.

You dare not look back to him, humiliated as you squirm on top of the bed and rest there as still as a statue though your blood thrums with anxiety. Your arms rest awkwardly at your sides, as you extend your chin in defiance, staring above you.

A textured golden cloth canopy decorates the wooden frame of your bed.

Your skin dances with goosebumps. A shadow covers you from the foot of the bed. You inhale a stuttering breath and release it in a rush, he is watching you. Watching your chest rise and fall, your body on display in stony silence.

"Look at me," he's so much closer than you thought. With one last breath, your eyes snap to him. His jacket is gone, leaving him in a tunic and pants. When he sees your attention has shifted from the ceiling, he removes his shirt in one fluid movement. Then his trousers are shed just as easily, leaving him nude before you.

Curiosity outweighs propriety as your stare leaves his to rove down his bared body. It starts with his chest, slim and lean, his pale skin is a canvas for the dancing candle light. Sinew muscles give way to a tapered waste, and when you stumble upon his maleness hanging softly, your gaze jumps back to his eyes.

The corners of his lips perk up, and he gives you a playful look. "Please continue," he teases. He crawls on top of the bed, still not touching you. Then, he pauses and his fingers finally circle your ankle, moving your leg to the side so he can kneel between your hips, causing your chemise to gather high. Your stomach drops at his first touch. His thighs resting between yours, a spot no other person has touched.

A blush simmers to your cheeks and you look back to the ceiling, that is until his hands hover over your shin. He drags a nimble finger up your inner thighs and under your shift.

You peek a glance at him, as he gauges your reaction, fingertips playing with the edge of your underwear. Then he fists your shift and pushes it higher onto your hips. "Off."

Lifting up your hips, your breath hitches as the skin of your legs intimately press against his waist, essentially resting across his thighs. Trying to buy one sentiment of dignity, you sit up ungracefully, lifting your shift over your head. Your arms cradle the garment to your chest, a frivolous armor against his penetrating gaze while keeping your own locked to the covers underneath you. "How modest you pretend to be." His finger snaps the edge of your underwear, forcing you to acknowledge him. "Tell me, did you pretend like this with my brother?" His lips pull back in a sneer as he pushes his hair back. It falls in black tresses against his face. "Or was it honest back then?"

Confusion sweeps through you, eyebrows wrinkle across your forehead. "I do not under-"

He reaches for your arms and pulls on them roughly, making you drop the dress to the side, leaving your chest nearly exposed.

"I don't need your excuses," he dismisses. Loki cages both your wrists in one grasp, as his fingers trace the edge of your bra, dancing down the valley of your chest. His hands dip under the material to cup your breast, kneading it expertly between his fingers. "No other woman has successfully trapped both brothers in her bed. Your parents would be proud, I am sure." He pinches your nipple then, and as pleasure burns through you, his words cause tears to form behind your eyes.

Don't think about them.

"I was never intimate with Thor," you justify, finally looking him in the eye.

Loki scoffs as if he knows better, retracting his hand with one last squeeze.

You want to fight him, disparage him, humiliate him. Tell him the truth: that you have never been with anyone. Is it even worth it though? He was bound to find out shortly, when he took you roughly, painfully.

Then he pulls you closer, your wrists still trapped as his face burrows in the crook of your neck. He takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent, and you in turn do the same, trying to match him. You refuse to let him know how unsettled you feel. How… embarrassed. Your chests brush with each breath, his cold skin radiated through the fabric confining your breasts. Your nipples harden against his chest, deliciously sensitive to his chilled temperature. A soft groan escapes your lips, past guarded rationality.

He snickers and his tongue runs fatly against your throat. Leaving a scorched trail of desire before reaching your ear. He bites your lobe, a pleasurable pain radiating down your spine before he breathes hotly in your ear. "I will not be as delicate as him. You will be mine, writhing, begging me for release," he vows wickedly. Then his free hand winds itself through your tresses and pulls your head back, exposing your throat.

Loki drops his mouth to your neck and kisses you intimately there, coating you with his saliva, then he bites hard, sucking the skin between his lips marking you, making you his. A violent tremor works through you; surprisingly, your hips buck against a newly hard bulge between his.

He releases your throat, his fingers pirouetting in your hair before letting you go. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes locked to your gaze. "Responsive little thing, aren't you?"

You chance a glance down between you. And as saliva pools in your mouth, you swallow it thickly. You knew to an extent what a naked man looked like. You heard rumors from other ladies, their storied nights at the Vaneheim court. But this… it is different than you had anticipated - angrier looking, a glistening red tip, veined and straining for attention. And when you realize it wants your attention, a rush of heat flows through you.

Loki's watches your assessment of him, no doubt seeing apprehension, bewilderment. When you lift your gaze back to him, you notice that his eyes have smoldered to burning coals, black as a looming storm's sky. He grasps your hand, erotically licks your palm, then brings it to wrap around himself. He guides you into a steady measured motion, then he squeezes your hands tighter, and removes his.

Your grasp remains still, feeling his weight, his heat, balanced in your clutches. It is hotter than the rest of him, you don't know why you expected the opposite. "Keep going," he instructs, his voice reaching a deep timbre and keeping his interest on you.

Experimentally, you grip him tighter and move your hand. A soft sigh passes through his lips as you twisted your hand in a long pull, your nail tracing his ridged head. It jumps in your hand; and with each steady motion, twist of your wrist, he almost grows thicker, heavier, angrier. You pause for a moment, watching it react to you.

"No wonder my brother fought to maintain your betrothal. You look ravishingly innocent." He says, before dipping his head low to take your clothed breast in his mouth. Before you could give his words thought, or think about the implication, he sucks your rigid nipple between his mouth, then without any warning, he bites hard.

A possessed groan escapes you. His hand snakes to your other breast, pinching, prodding, pulling your skin almost roughly, sending electric shots.

As you increase the friction on his engorged member, a pooling sensation grows between your folds while his tongue continues to pebble your breast. He then moves to the other, licking, sucking, as the cool air dances across the wet fabric of your abandoned nipple.

Your hips grow a mind of their own, almost moving with your hand. Then, a hotness spreads across your skin when your hips grind against his member nestled between yours in the most delicious way. It's like you have caught fire and the only thing that could temper it is a steady, pulsating pressure between your legs.

"Enough." He pulls back from you, pushing your chest away from him and making you land on the bed. You pant, sweat gathering on your skin. "The rest." Without even specifying, you know he is telling you to remove the last remaining clothing.

With steady hands you detach the bra and push down your underwear, wriggling out of the material. Then, silence. A beat, two, three. You finally peek in his direction, only to see his gaze is locked on you, bouncing between the glistening juncture between your thighs and your breasts. His heavy stare is too much, too judgmental, you can practically hear him comparing you to other women; so, you lift your arms, covering your breasts from his view.

"No," he says, pulling your arms away from your body. "Do not dare to hide yourself."

He must think your skin is permanently tinted red, as blood rushes to your face again. His hand starts at your neck before making its way over your shoulders. Lightly hovering, goosebumps following its wake. Down your shoulders and over the side of your breast, along your ribs and hips, until finally stalling between your thighs.

You pray that you don't shake, that you don't let him know. His silence is petrifying. Then his fingers part your folds, tracing your nether lips. He hisses upon contact and a soundless breath escapes you as he gathers wetness and spreads it, circling your own engorged sex.

Then he unceremoniously sinks two fingers into you, and a painful whimper escapes your mouth. His gaze snaps up to you, concern etched across your face; so, you bite your bottom lip and screw your eyes tight. You don't want him to see any tears well in your eyes.

He freezes his fingers. "Is it true? No other man has touched you?"

You release a stuttering breath then nodding. "I told you," a gasp escapes your lips.

His fingers slip deeper into you, slightly stretching you. "Look at me," his demand comes out softer, almost as if asking you.

You look at him then, really look at him - his pale skin glistening, his raven hair pushed off his face, his sculpted chest heaving with silent breaths and his hand buried between your thighs.

He leans over you, his hand trapped amid your bodies, his other arm taking the brunt of his weight. Loki's face is a few inches from you, and you realize for the first time, that his lips have not once touched yours.

You lick your lips in anticipation, looking at his. Thin, pink, nimble.

His tongue flicks against your lips then, sensually stimulating your own. Your mouth parts and his does the same. His tongue undulates again, this time sinking into your mouth and running it inside your bottom lip.

Then he presses your lips together. Hard, pliantly pushing yours apart with his tongue. His tongue enters your mouth in dominance, rolling it against your own. He tastes, sweet and musky, a mix of liquor and male. His teeth nibble your lips as his left hand caresses your neck, tilting your head to give his tongue deeper access.

Your hands move to his shoulders, to his hair, perching your fingers in his curled tresses. A groan escapes you when his teeth bite down harder on your bottom lip. You pull on his hair in retribution, not realizing as his fingers have receded from inside you. He pulls his head back, watching your face as his two fingers dip back into you. Sinking one knuckle, two, three, then they retreat. An uncomfortable feeling gives way as his thumb begins circling your clit making your hips spring forward. His breath fans across your lips and his erection lays heavy across your lap.

"Tell me how you feel." His fingers retreat then push back in. His teeth nip your lip, when you remain silent. "I won't ask again."

Your breath catches in your throat when his thumb presses harder against your clit, his knee pushing your legs farther apart to make room for his hips. His eyes studying your own.

"Good," is all you can manage. Your hands pulling tighter on his hair.

"Let me tell you what I feel then." He begins, his fingers pumping a bit faster then, winding you tighter. "Wet, and tight. Hugging my fingers in time with your throbbing heartbeat. I can't wait to feel this around my cock."

"Please," you whisper delicately, your gaze searching his own.

He removes his fingers then, your eyes lidded with desire. Why did he stop?

You want to ask him, but instead bite your lip when he removes his fingers, wet with evidence of your desire, and brings them to his lips, sucking them. He groans, "Want to know what you taste like?"

You lick your lips, almost nodding. But then his fingers violently push back into you, making your chest rise from the bed. He chuckles then, moving them in a steady rhythm, tightening a coil inside you. His thumb circling your clit again, his lips scraping your jaw. "How do you feel?" He asks again and you shake your head in response and dig your nails into his scalp. Just when you think release will come, when he pinches the tip of your breast with his free hand. he stops immediately.

He brings his fingers, drenched in your juices, to your left nipple, smearing juices onto your skin.

"Loki…" You say quietly. Your hands move to his erection taking a firm hold of him. "Please," you beg, unsure of what you're asking for. You move your hand up and down his length once, twice. Then, his hips move against your hand, fucking it, the tip of his cock slipping between your folds then retreating.

His cold hands cover yours, directing his erection between your folds, covering it in your wetness. "So wet," he praises, "warm."

Then, your combined hands, guide him to your dripping entrance.

He pushes softly into you, just the tip, and you tense immediately. He's thicker than you imagined.

"Relax," he advises, pushing deeper, your walls offering little resistance to his jutting member.

He leans over you again, taking your hands and interlacing your fingers. He cages both of your hands over your head, and just when all you can smell, all you can feel, is him, he snaps his hips flush against yours.

A cry wrenches itself from your throat and his mouth dips to your breast, licking the remnants of the juices he smeared against your skin. His tongue pulsing around your firm tip. You strain against his hands, but he keeps them grounded on the bed. You need to move, touch his hair, anything to distract you from the burning between your thighs. You hike your legs on his hips, interlocking your ankles around his back.

"Relax," Loki repeats against your breast before leaning forward to kiss you again. His lips momentarily distract you, as he pulls his hips back slowly, then surges forward again.

He lets go of one of your hands, bringing his to your core, circling your clit again to stimulate a budding pleasure. You're sickened to realize that there's barely any pain now, instead, intense pleasure sweeps through you.

You immediately bring your hand to his back, digging your nails into his skin. A childish part of you doesn't want him know you're enjoying this. Your lips tangle with his, as he moves at a steadier pace, made easier by the slickness between your thighs.

When his fingers deftly circle your clit, you pull away from his mouth and pant. A string pulls from your core, making you throb.

"Feel that?" He asks, "Your sweet cunt gripping me, pulsing, trying to milk me?"

You nod, your eyes growing wide when he pinches your clit making you cry out.

"This is mine." He says, pushing into you at a harder pace. His skin slaps against yours as his pants caress your face, wet noises punctuating the air. There's no pretending you don't like this.

You nod your head agreeing, losing control of your mind, body, giving him the reins to your being

Your back arches as his hand leaves your clit to pull your left leg higher on his hip. Suddenly his cock presses against a sweet spot deep within your core. With one last hard thrust, you throw your head back and let go, gasping. Flinging yourself off a cliff.

Loki's hand clenches your jaw in his palm. Not daring to change his angle, he continues to hit that spot inside of you, his hip grinding against your clit. Stimulating you again. You don't even have time to come down before you're climbing another summit. You try to shake your head out of his grasp but he holds you in place. You don't want to come again. You don't want to enjoy this. But your body does, his body around you. His sculpted chest pressed tightly against yours. His balls slapping against your skin. It's all too much.

"Open your eyes and watch me as you come again." He presses hard against your jaw, possibly leaving a bruise in its wake. "I want you to see who is doing this to you. Who is making your pussy pulse."

Your eyes open at his voice. Deep, graveled, hard.

"Please," you say, not knowing how he is manipulating your body so well. Not wanting to know how you could be so close after a mere few minutes. But, there you are, tighter than a bowstring, watching a bead trail down your husband's cheek.

Then, when you least expect it, he groans, his pace suddenly coming uneven. "Come," he grunts, as his hips stutter between your thighs at a bruising pace.

A swear on his lips, his uneven pace pressing against your clit, his jaw straining in almost pain. You follow his lead, silently coming a second time around him.

"Norns," he says, burrowing his head in the crook of your neck biting down leaving another mark against the delicate skin, as he continues to pump his seed inside you.

The only sounds are pants and the crackling of the fireplace. Seconds bleed into minutes, as Loki still rests on top of you, his skin cooling yours.

Then he pushes off of you and stands, his eyes dancing across your skin.

You can barely push yourself up to your forearms to watch as he walks to the water basin on the other side of the room. His body is all muscle, his backside firm, his arms lean and powerful.

Grabbing a cloth, he cleans himself off. Then he turns returns to you, a small smirk on his face. He brings the cloth between your legs, cleaning your southern lips. A hint of blood mixed with come and seed stains the cloth, making you blush and your legs quiver.

He throws the cloth to the floor, before redressing himself with a wave of his hand.

Then with another movement, a wool night gown adorns your body.

"Sleep well, pet." He says, before retreating from the bed.

"You're not going to stay?" You ask, cringing as soon as the words leave your mouth.

Loki snickers, a smirk gracing his lips. "I'm afraid I have other business to attend to this evening. Reports to give, lovers to entertain," he cruelly states, reminding you his infidelity. "Don't fret, darling, I'll be back for another round tomorrow evening. After all, I'm under strict orders to fill your womb as soon as possible."

As he says the words, a bell chimes from beyond the palace, signaling midnight. Then, he departs unceremoniously, leaving you, as promised, mewling, spent on the bed. You somehow maneuver yourself under the covers.

And then, after the darkness surrounds you, as the new day begins, you finally let yourself cry.

After all, it was no longer your wedding day.

* * *

I hope you guys are enjoying this. What do you think so far?

Tumblr: BottledMichelle


	4. Dirty Paws - The Proposal

You're vaguely aware of a soreness between your legs as your violent dreams give way to consciousness.

Peeking through one eye, you watch Eira flutter around the room, sweeping the hearth, cleaning the chamber pot, filling the water basin. The room is still shrouded in darkness. She glides as silent as possible, seemingly out of respect for your rest. Then, the servant pads to the window curtains.

She opens them swiftly, as if a jarring brightness would be easier to wake to than the sound of her chores.

You sit up as the light floods your room, ignoring your body's protests.

Eira turns to you. There's a pensive, guarded look on her face, as if waiting to see if you're going to punish the girl for her confession from the night prior. That she is, or was, Loki's courtesan - or one of them at least.

 _It ended when your betrothal was announced._

You study Eira for any signs that she had joined Loki in his chambers after he was done with you. Fortunately, she only seems well rested and vibrant. Her honey hair is pinned on top of her head, her skin nearly translucent, and her movements calm.

"Good morning, my Lady," she curtsies formally. "I apologize for waking you, but the Allfather has announced that a breakfast feast will begin shortly. Your absence would be questioned."

You ignore the disappointment clawing inside you, even though you should know better. On the morning after your wedding, you are not permitted rest - it is a celebration for everyone. "That's quite alright."

"Is there a particular gown you would like to wear?" Eira asks, turning around and heading to a garment rack inside an armoire.

She pulls a gown from the closet. Cream fabric glistens in the sunlight, a shining satin with a green and gold cape attached to its shoulder. It's beautiful and yet taunting, daring, with a plunging neckline. You're instantly reminded of Loki, which makes you recall the night before. You stare at it from the bed lost in reverie - of his lips pressed against yours, his cold fingers pressed in intimate places, his teeth biting your neck.

"Would you prefer another?" Eira asks solemnly, misunderstanding your silence and toying with the fabric. "I'm sorry if my choice was presumptuous."

"No," You shake your head, finally rising as gracefully a possible from the bed, still aware of your stiff, throbbing core. "It is lovely." As you stand, you push hair away from your face and pad over to the wash tub. "I would prefer to have a bath first, if there is time for it of course."

"Of course, my Lady." Eira turns to a large water pot that was toasting on the fire hearth. She brings it to the tub and pours it carefully. The steam rises from the basin as the hot water mixes with the room temperature liquid that was already there. She begins to pull your shift from your shoulders, but you wave her off.

"I can do this. Please continue what it is you need to do."

You remove your evening dress, only slightly apprehensive of your nudity. Shedding clothes in front of other ladies was nothing, and after last night, you had a feeling your own modesty would cease to exist.

As you slip into the water, the heat envelopes your muscles. It loosens and calms you, and you slip your head underneath, uncaring what it would do to your hair. Hopefully Eira would be able to rearrange it, but at this point you refused to care. Opening your eyes under the water, you stare outward and seeing how the water blurred the ceiling tiles. You ignored the burning in your lungs in favor of the silence underneath the water - it was beautiful. You felt… almost at peace. Like the water was shipping you home, to Vanaheim, to your parents, to Hel or to Valhalla. How you wish they were here.

You finally pull yourself out of the water and take a gulp of air, there is no point in drowning. They'd find a way to revive you.

You finish up the bath quickly, scrubbing your body until your skin is red and raw.

Then you stand, allowing Eira to cover you in a robe. She makes light conversation with you as she combs your hair and braids it elegantly in an abhorrent Asgardian style. You have no desire to direct her to change it, especially considering she's continuing a conversation only encouraged by your own well-timed nod. She keeps half of it pulled back while letting the rest of it fall. That's when you notice the bruises. Thick, dark bruises. Bites. Evidence from the night before.

Eira has noticed them too, her fingers hover over the fresh marks as if unsure what to do.

Her eyes search yours and that's when you see sadness, and empathy. Her light eyes glisten softly as she turns from your reflection. "Does it hurt, My Lady? Can I get you something for it? A salve?"

You shake your head. In full honesty, you hadn't even known there were bruises. They didn't hurt at all. "I'm quite alright," you reassure her softly.

Eira nods, then smiles, "Perhaps we should rethink your dress?"

You laugh then, an un-lady-like bark, thinking of how bare your upper chest and neck would be in the dress she chose, strutting through the Great Hall, proudly wearing the Prince's wounds on your skin. "I think you're right."

Her eyes light as she turns and finds another gown in the closet.

And this gown is exquisite.

As she pulls the dress out, you stand to face it. Your fingers delicately trace the fabric. A free-flowing satin skirt is synched together at the waist by glimmering, yet muted, crystals. The bodice is a beautiful beaded design that weaves to cover your breasts. Your shoulders will be bare and your upper chest will only be seen through a silver mesh fabric before the crystals came together again to hide any impurities on your neck.

And there are a few - four impurities to be exact.

Thanks to him.

You quickly dress, allowing Eira to help lace your corset then slip the dress over your body.

It falls in a sweeping motion, and dances around your form with every movement.

The dress is a statement, a declaration. It affirms something you've always known: You Are Royalty.

True, you have always been royalty, but now, you are Asgardian royalty. And the thought of other people seeing you in this, their eyes appraising or arbitrating you. Judging you.

And those thoughts, that they would all be staring at you. Well, you could already feel the anxiety clawing up your throat.

You don't want to leave your chambers.

But you will. You refuse to cower in your room like a frightened girl they believe you to be. You're the heir to Vanaheim, wife to Loki Odinson. You are dangerous.

With that thought, you leave, Eira taking a step behind you.

When you finally reach the Great Hall doors, all you hear are loud conversations. Realizing a crowd has gathered for the morning, you take a deep breath in and push the doors open. With a head held high, you enter the hall, daring for people to look your way.

And they do. Silence spreads like wildfire.

Without sparing any of the attendees a glance, you walk to the head table. Your eyes remain on the empty two seats as far from Odin as possible. From the corner of your eye, you see the Allmother watching you, concern gracing her features as you barely manage to sit gracefully in your chair. At least no one could see the marks on your skin in this dress, even if your movements seemed stiff.

As you take your seat, the crowd begins to murmur, no doubt wondering where Loki is. Then as if a spell is lifted, people begin to talk again, some about trivial matters, others, no doubt, discussing you.

Of course, it is likely tradition for the couple to enter the Great Hall together the morning after. Of course, Loki is never one to maintain tradition.

A goblet is set in front of you along with a plate of delicacies - fruit, meats.

"My daughter," Frigga's gentle voice greets as she takes the seat next to you.

You swallow the fruit, looking at the beautiful woman. "Allmother," you say bowing your head slightly and averting your eyes.

"How are you my dear?"

You smile, swallowing the truth. "I am well. Your family bestows great kindness upon me."

Frigga gently touches your forearm, making you glance at her. "You are my family, dear." Her eyes, kind and caring, pull at your heart-strings, nearly dragging a tear from yours with it. You long to drop into her arms, longing for any type of comfort, but you refrain. After all, these niceties were just empty words.

"Have you seen my son?"

You glance down at your plate, having no desire to even eat. Thinking about how fruits rot, age, deform with time. Decays - with bruises. "I have not seen him since last night." A flush grows on your skin at the memory. "In my chambers," you add, ensuring she knew that he partook in husband duties.

Frigga's gaze hardens and her hand retreats. If she weren't near, you would have missed the tension seared across her face. Her eyes wrinkle, her lips purse, it is both terrifying and amazing to witness. Unsure what to make of her reaction, you calmly bring another piece of fruit to your lips and take a deep breath.

"He was kind," you whisper hoping to assuage the Queen's worries and quiet temper.

She releases a breath as sadness overwhelms her, "You can leave the lies to my son. Stay well, daughter." Then, she pushes back from her seat and stands, retreating back to Odin's side, leaving you to a private breakfast and taking any hunger with her.

You continue to sit alone, counting the seconds and minutes until a suitable amount of time has passed. Loki never appears, even as people come, wait, anticipate his arrival, and leave forlornly. Disappointed. Longing for a scene. Longing for drama.

The only saving grace is that your new _family_ has left you alone for some time. Thor has lingers with his companions - the Warriors Three - not even paying you a word of good fortune. It is a relief honestly. The last thing you want is for your husband to walk in while Thor gives you attention. Odin remains at the head of the table, though left with matters to attend to. And the Allmother, while waiting with her Ladies-of-Court, seemed distant from the festivities.

Finally, after a time, and gaining Frigga's approval, you excuse yourself.

Eyes follow you out of the halls, likely waiting until the door shut behind you to discuss your solitary and unsociable presence. You realize after some time, that Eira followed you as well. Her soft steps echo off marble of the walls making you feel smothered and cornered.

"I was told you love gardens, my lady," The handmaid begins from a step to your left. "Would you like to tour the Royal Commons? The Allmother tends to many of the plants herself."

You pause for a second looking around the empty stone hallway. You refuse to go back to your room and hide. Refuse to avoid life. In your bedchambers, it is easy to pretend everything is as it was, but out here it is impossible, you are constantly affronted with your new life.

"I would love that," you confess after some time.

As Eira leads the way, she tells you the story of the garden. You memorize the trail to the area as she confesses that it is enchanted by the Allmother. While they are only a small section of the Palace, once one enters, the gardens cluster into an area the size of the Black Forest - with rolling hills, flowering plants, and even buildings. There are legends of people losing their way, lost for a century before finding their way out again. Imagining yourself in the garden for a hundred years, aimlessly traveling amongst lush plant life, is your personal form of Valhalla.

Before you know it, large marble cloisters give way to a courtyard full of hedges and flowers that bloom into a maze of green. The garden is alive and flourishing, pregnant with life.

You wish for nothing but to be alone in here. To lay amongst roses and idle the day away. "Leave me," you command.

"My Lady," Eira begins, "I do not think it wise to be alone so-"

"I did not ask for your opinion," you tell her sharply. "I'm in a Royal Courtyard, not outside the palace. You have nothing to fear. I have nowhere to go nor a way to flee."

After a long pause, the handmaiden curtsies. "As you wish," then turns on her heal, scurrying away as if a danger lay in the gardens.

Perhaps you are the danger.

You move forward, uncaring that the hems of your dress ruddy with dirt and grass stains. After wandering through hedges and emptying your thoughts, you find a pathway that leads to an enclosed garden. The only way to enter is through a stoned lianas archway that is adorned with flowering vines. You gather your skirts around you and walk through it, stepping down stone steps and entering larger alcove of overgrown plants and a decaying bath. Marble statues are fractured, and the trees are bare.

How long has it been since another stepped in here? It seems no one has cared for the area in nearly a millennium.

It is a ruin and, yet, you feel something akin to it. While in shambles, vines grow between the stones and tree branches sink into the mossy green water, it still is beautiful. It is simply lonely. You wish to spend the rest of your time here, wanting to keep it company, ensuring it was never alone again.

Moving closer to the bath, you stop at the water's edge.

As the sun dances behind overgrown willow trees, you could imagine this area in its glory. Crystal blue water, rock so bright it gleams back at you, and hordes of people enjoying the water. The thought of it, of the beauty just waiting to be found, is serene and calming. A snapped twig wakes you from your daydream. You turn sharply to find a shadow at the entrance to the alcove.

xXxXx

"My wife," father began, his voice carrying through his study. "You mustn't worry yourself."

"How can I not? She is a child."

You lay your hand on the door, pushing it open ever so slowly. A slight opening, nothing more than a sliver, gave you a full view of the room. Mother sat in the chair across from father's desk. You could tell, even from just the rigid back of her head, that worry lines were creased across her features, all the while father gave her a lazy and teasing smile.

"A child who is well past the marrying age."

Mother sighed and tapped her fingers against the desk. "I do not trust them."

"You'd be a fool to, after Freya and the young one."

Mother pulled her hands to her face, released a deep sigh and lowered her voice.

You put your ear against the door, holding your breath to hear their conversation. Who was Freya?

It was a name that did not sound the least bit familiar.

"Why then promise her to them?" She began pulling on the chain around her neck, a familiar rose locket she adorned all the time. A wedding present from your grandmother, promised to one day be yours.

Father let out a deep gruff, "I have my reasons."

"Surely there is another way than using our daughter as a pawn in your chess match." Mother argued, her voice edged with a venom.

"Vanaheim needs help," Father said, his voice dropping again. "I have been talking with," he paused then looked towards the door, scrutinizing the gap. You took a step back, trying to avoid his gaze.

And, as you stepped back, the floorboards groaned.

You bit your lower lip, knowing that they had to of heard it. Suddenly, there were footsteps walking to the door and it was thrown open.

"Father!" You greeted with a large smile.

Father chuckled and stepped to the side to let you enter. "Have you been eavesdropping daughter?"

"Perhaps," you teased, walking in and taking a seat next to mother. You pulled her hand into yours and turned to her. "Was there something I should eavesdrop for?"

"You are too clever," Father told you, his eyes blazing with an elegant pride. "It'd be best to dull yourself."

You smiled back at him, delighting in his attention, and rested your head on Mothers shoulder. You already dreaded the day they'll leave court to return to Vanaheim. At least they'd only be a Bi-Frost journey away.

xXxXx

"Who's there?" You call to the hunched form. You collect the skirts in your hand as a frown pulls at your lips and erratic heartbeats thrust blood through you. The small hairs on the back of your neck rise, triggering a warning deep in your soul. "Announce yourself!" You command, your voice booming with confidence that you do not possess. Taking a step back you prepare to run, scarcely realizing that the shadow is guarding the only way in and out of your area.

"Princess," a familiar raspy voice greets. Taking a step from the shadows, you instantly recognize the woman as the old nurse who prepared you for your wedding. "I apologize if I frightened you. 'Tis hard to get time alone with you now that you have married." Your eyebrows furrow, as your mind races to piece her words together. "You remember me, do you not?"

"I do."

The elder gleams at you, taking another step with your honest confession. "And do you know who I am?"

"You are a wet nurse," you surmise. "Probably for one of the Families at Court."

"Aye, I was a wet nurse in my youth, but not in Asgard."

The woman's haunting smile, her rouged lips, her hair tied tightly back beneath a hood all seems Asgardian. She's adopted their customs, their mannerisms, made herself seem like one of them. But her words, spoken in ancient Vanir, they were not something an Asgardian would mumble to a traitor of the crown. It would be too easy to be caught.

 _Lang Lewe Vanir_

"Enough with the riddles. Who are you?" You ask hastily.

"I was a friend of your father."

Your back straightens, instantly, and your hands clench into painful fists when your nails dig into your palm. How dare she mention him. How dare she claim to be his friend. Where was she when his head was removed in a single swing? She was not there. His friends, allies, were not there. You were. Grasped tightly in large, talon clutches forced to remain impassive as he was stolen from you.

"You?" You spit, "He had no friends here. That was clear."

The woman does not take any warning from your dark timbre; instead, she floats forward. While yesterday, she was old and haggard, aged bones stiffly faltering, today she has a youth blanketing her in fluid movements.

"There always has been, and always will be, allies of Vanaheim if you seek the right places. Draped in the shadows, budding in the light." Before you even have a second to process her words, the woman is in front of you, gawping into your eyes and allowing you to view the truth in hers. She's open, vulnerable, seeking you out as a form of comfort and salvation.

Your lips purse and you clench your jaw. Finally, you ask, "What do you want with me?"

The woman finally smiles, her soft hands cradle your face and trap you between them. "It is not what we want. It is what we offer."

You swallow a slick bile of fear that threatens to rise from your stomach and break a piece of your frosty exterior. "And what do you offer?"

"Revenge," she states, calmly. A measured word that could crumble the ground you stand on. "There is a plan, one to avenge your father and mother, to restore Vanheim power to the true Princess. You."

There's a pause.

A buzzing in the distance.

A silent moment stretching for longer.

Your heart escalates in your chest, as blood thrums through your ears. This is treason. This has to be a trap. "Why would I want that?" Although you already knew the answer, you think of your father kneeling on the executioner's block. You think of your mother lifeless in her room.

The woman takes a ragged breath. "Why would you not avenge them? Yourself?"

You take a sharp step back from the woman at the thought of another overhearing this conversation. Instead, you repeat your earlier question. "Who are you?"

"In due time you'll find out. Do you accept to be part of this?"

"I cannot discuss this." You take a step around her, mind racing with dangerous outcomes of this conversation, like if someone was to pass by. Or if another overheard you. You keep your back to her, dropping your head and inhale deeply. Concentrating on your breath, you exhale any of these possibilities from your mind. Banish them. You hadn't agreed, hadn't even consented to her speaking to you.

The woman makes a small noise and you stop in your path, but you refuse to circle back to her.

"I understand, Princess. It is a lot to consider. You have one night and one day to come to a final decision. Otherwise the plan will move forward without you."

With that statement, dismissal, you continue forward. Keeping a calm resolve, you pass through the archway. Then, once you are over the threshold and out of sight, you run, leaving the nurse, the ghosts, and the treasonous plots behind.

By the time you exit the garden, night has fallen. A thousand stars twinkle at you as you enter the castle, silently praying that today's events were nothing but a dream. A horrid nightmare.

You know though, as you push your bedchamber's door open, that couldn't be true. And you have no idea what to do. Do you tell the Allfather? Do you join a hopeless rebellion? Or, do you just stay impassive, a complicit bystander as tragedy falls or rises in Asgard.

And, as you close the door, you collapse against it, finally letting your guard down. That is, until a voice calls from the fireplace.

"And where have you been?"


	5. So Cold - The Conflict

And as you close the door, you collapse against it, finally letting your guard down. That is, until a voice calls from the fireplace. "And where have you disappeared to?"

"My Prince," you breathe as your heart beats erratic paces. "What are you doing here?"

Loki is draped across the settee sofa with a book in his hands. Pale, unblemished, lean fingers mark a page and close the book before dropping it on the sofa next to him. You watch his hands flex; his graceful movements accentuate the veins popping from them. "I came to collect you for dinner but imagine my surprise when you were not here," he explains, his voice taking on a languid mocking tone.

"I apologize if I kept you waiting." Your stomach drops when Loki dramatically stands to his feet. As he begins walking your way, carefully ensuring his measured steps disrupt the silence in your room, you move backwards out of habit, knocking into the door. "I visited the Royal gardens this morning, I heard tales of their beauty."

Loki's smile is tight and his darkened eyes keep you locked in a trance, as he approaches you like a predator ready to attack. "And who granted you permission to visit my mother's gardens?" You immediately try to burrow further into the door to create space between you, as if you possess the ability to pass through solid wood. You drop his gaze, carefully thinking of an explanation. "Who were you with, pet?"

"I…" you trail off, at a loss for words. You recall the garden - the woman - the proposition - the rebellion. Frustration grows inside you as you try to decide whether or not to tell him.

His hands, previously limp at his sides, tighten into fists as you remain silent, working through your decision. His head dances closer to you, momentarily distracting your train of thought and sense of danger. Unlike the night before, his breath smells fresh now, like spring. It is so unlike the mead from last night. It is drugging. Intoxicating. It's making your body bold, craving carnal needs.

Though you are ashamed to admit this to even the darkest parts of your mind, your skin wants his breath caressing it. Your ears want his groans from above you. Your body wants to feel him inside you again, his lips discovering parts that no other has touched. And your feminine sex, engorged with the thoughts from the night before, wants his nimble fingers taunting your body in tight circles. And as the memories resurface, a slick heat blooms inside you.

Sickening.

You wonder if Loki enjoyed it, like you enjoyed it.

It sounded, felt like he relished it.

You want to hate him.

You pull yourself out of his confounding gaze, recognizing that even though your body may want his, you need to have a clear mind.

"I wasn't with-"

Suddenly, like a snake uncoiling to a strike, his fist winds around your neck and slams your head against the wall. A loud crack and splintering pain shoot through your skull, erasing any thoughts of the night before. You try taking a breath only to find his grip was too tight. "Don't lie to me," he spits menacingly. He lifts you off your feet, holding you by just your neck, and presses his body closer to you.

His clutch loosens briefly enough for you to squeeze out, through a ragged wheeze, "I wasn't."

But then Loki's hand tightens again, the beads of your dress poke into your neck, and your barely able to take a deep gulp of air before his clutches return to damaging pain. You slap your hand around his forearm and dig your nails into his green, cotton tunic, praying that it's strong enough to dissuade him. Your toes barely reach the floor as he keeps you pinned against the door. You watch his eyes grow and his face contorts with fascination at the desperation in yours. You hadn't realized until now, how much you wanted to live. Ironic, since this very morning, you wished to sink into the tub and never resurface.

Loki drops his head to the crook of your neck, before taking a deep inhale and letting his mouth drop to your skin. Then his breath trails a hot pathway to your ear, making you shiver, and hovers over it, whispering, "I can smell him on you."

You shake your head, as tears fall, trying to pull his grasp from your neck as you begin to panic more. You can't breathe. Can't speak. Is this death? Your windpipe is held tightly, you can't swallow an ounce of air, and you can feel your lungs start to scream for sustenance, something you haven't denied them since a childhood dive in the water.

If this was death though, it was soft, bloodless. Similar to your mothers. "Eira," you mouth a lie to him, hoping he understands. That's who you were with, no one else.

Just as your eyes flutter shut, fading into an unquestionable, final darkness, Loki lets go and you fall to the wooden floor in a heap. You take a ragged breath in, a pain radiates from your throat. It hurts to take breathe. You move your mouth, trying to swallow thick saliva and tears. You dare not open your eyes. Everything is silent. Perhaps, you are dead.

A moment stretches to minutes as time idles by, when you finally open your eyes, you see he is still standing in front of you. He's a monstrous mountain standing in front of an idle, helpless river, destined to a course predetermined for her.

He then pulls you up by your arm, steadying you in another firm grasp. How was it that a few minutes ago you were romanticizing him, his actions? Confusing bodily desires for something else.

You find footing, even though he is steadying you, and lean against the door, still trying to catch your breath and calm your rapid heartbeat.

Loki trails a hand across and suddenly the neck of your dress is gone. He hovers over your skin where an irate, red mark begins to form. Finally, you look at him, only to find his face is a mask looking at the imprints he left around your neck, from last night and now.

You try to read him, try to gauge the look shadowing across his pale green eyes, they are almost blue, you decide. Almost like Thor's, if Thor could ever look cold and calculating and monstrous. If Thor could almost kill you over an imagined lie.

It was not imagined though, was it?

As his hand hovers over your irritated skin, his eyes shut slowly, as if in pain. Either from shame or arousal.

"The scent was familiar," he divulges, as if that explains his actions. He reopens his eyes watches you. "I believed it belonged to another." His hand grazes your cheek and wipes a tear, softly. As if you desire a comforting touch, like the tears are not a consequence of his exploit. Instead, you flinch from his cold touch. A heavy silence falls between you, thick enough to cloud rationality.

Your eyes harden as Loki's hand cups your jaw, lifting your head to inspect his afflicted damage. The truth is, you are a boiling ocean receding and gathering into a giant surge readying to crash over him. You want him to realize you, to reckon you as the tidal wave you are.

For a second his disguise drops and Loki's lips settle into a harsh scowl as his eyes rove over your expression, and all you want is to know what he's thinking. Probably, appraising his work. Though, he doesn't look smug enough for that, his expression does not echo a haughty sentiment. It's something else. But in a calculated flash, his mask is back in place. Waiting for you to say something.

Then, he reaches to your skirts and pulls them up, as he leans his face closer. You dare not move, to not engage him in any type of tryst. You wanted him to leave. His hands travel up your thighs, drawing a pattern as his nose dances with yours, as his eyelids get heavy and watch your lips.

Chills form across your skin and his delicate fingertips make your stomach drop. They continue their climb bunching your dress as he continues his pathway, his breath hitches as his fingers reach the apex of your thighs. Your eyes look past him dancing along the scenery behind him.

You don't want this. And as his fingers slither beneath your chemise, beneath your undergarments, you're humiliated to find your still slick with desire from the reverie of the night before. A dark chuckle escapes him.

"How fascinating, pet." He breathes into you, pressing his hips against yours. "You enjoyed that."

You snap back to reality.

You snap back to you.

"No."

Without thinking, your hand strikes him. A loud slap reverberates through the room. Loki's face swings in the direction your palm forced him to, and you push him away, reclaiming dignity.

The tidal wave crashes against the mountain.

Loki takes a step back, his hand, previously hidden beneath your skirt, touches the side of his face. He then runs his other hand through his hair, pushing it back, and looks at you in wonder. Your eyes must be as wide as his. Shocked that you actually slapped a Prince of Asgard.

Loki's lips turn upward, threateningly. As if he knows a truth you have yet to discover. "Who is this creature?" He asks, appraising you from head to toe, "And where did she come from?" He walks closer to you and looks deeply in your eyes.

"You will not intimidate me into submission," you tell him. Daring to equal his feral look.

His arm reaches out and he rests his hand against the door, leaning back over you. "Oh, but I will."

He then crashes his lips over yours, making sure no other part of him touches you. Your eyes remain locked on each other as Loki's lips coax yours into opening. Lithe, soft, pushing, pulling. His tongue surges into your mouth, exploring yours, tasting you in an immoral study. Without thinking, without blinking, you bite on his tongue. You believed he'd withdraw immediately, but instead, his bottom teeth scrape your lip, sensually.

You dual him for dominance, clawing against him. But, before you can do any damage to him, he pulls himself away.

You lick your lips, tasting him on them, disgustingly savoring his taste. He darkly snickers, and grasps both of your shoulders, turning you so his back was to the door.

Then, without another word, he opens the door and slips through it. Leaving you alone, exposed, and once again humiliated.

And even knowing that he could do whatever he wished to you, knowing none would come to your defense, you would slap him again.

xXxXx

Any library was a sanctuary. A safe place littered with stories and lessons. A second home. The royal library was even more beautiful, with shelves in every nook and books shoved haphazardly onto all surfaces, following a maddening pattern that could only make sense to the most avid of readers.

Midgardian literature.

Alfheim legends.

Nividellir records.

You wandered through the shelves, mouth agape, while familiarizing yourself with the layout. You finally stumbled upon a case that was devoted to Vanir history.

You hastily grabbed a stack of books and found a table close to the book case, but far enough away that a person would have to search the grounds to find you.

You scanned pages, looking for a tale of a young girl, a tale of this Freya. Page after page. Nothing. You flipped quickly glazing over words when a cold presence radiates from behind you.

"You're reading speed astounds me, Princess." A dry voice jumbled the air.

When you peered over your shoulder, careful to arrange your arms to hide what you were reading, you find Loki. You suppressed a shutter as an uncomfortable, guarded smile graced your lips. "My Prince," you greeted.

Loki measuredly stepped around you, his hands behind his back as he took a seat across from yours. He swiped the book from under your arm and closed the book. He peered at it through half-lidded eyes and read aloud, "'The History of Vanaheim vol. 7' how… plebeian."

You clenched your jaw to keep from saying something improper like you wished to. "Is there something you needed, My Prince?"

Loki gracefully placed the book on the table and slid it back to you. His gaze settled into one of damning curiosity. "You can start by my name." He gestured for you to repeat your question.

"Is there something you needed, _Loki?_ "

"Prince Loki," he corrected with a smile, though when you glowered at him, his smile dropped. He pursed his lips for a moment, then his eyes light with mischievous intent. "Is it not in best interests for us to be acquainted?"

"I thought we already were," you told him plainly.

"Perhaps, I am proposing that we become more intimately acquainted."

An uncomfortable heat bloomed across your cheeks, as your eyes dropped to the closed book in front of you. "I'm not sure I can appreciate your question."

Loki smirked, "Oh, I'm sure you can." His long fingers tap rhythmically on the table.

You had nothing to say to that, no witty comeback or snarky remark. Nothing to make you seem less flustered than you were at the prospect of intimacy with a man, a Prince. A Prince you were not betrothed to. When you finally look back to him, deciding it would be easier to swallow fear than to admit to fear, you notice his eyes have hardened to a mirthful black pool that matched his hair color.

It had to be a test.

"You flatter me," you lied finally, maintaining eye contact even as his scowl deepened. "Fortunately, my intimate relations with your brother keep me more than satiated. I have no need to enter into an untoward dalliance with you." Your heart paced erratically in your chest, even as you remain stoically staring at Loki.

"This is your answer?" He asked coldly, almost as if your answer was unbelievable, as if you were not to wed his brother. His eyes, no longer light or mirthful, take a cynical edge.

"I apologize if it was not what you had hoped for."

"Are you mocking me?"

Your stomachdropped. "No," you vehemently shook your head.

After a beat, a large toothy grin, possibly a sneer, graced his features and you shivered. But he simply tipped his head, "May I suggest you uncover the trivial depths in the Asgardian Scrolls. Perhaps there you will find what you search so desperately for."

With that, he stood quickly, gracefully, in one fluid motion, and retreated; his even, calculated steps echoed off the walls and punctuated the tense silence he left behind.

xXxXx

Time slips by and you wait for Eira to ready your chambers for bed. The moon reaches high in the sky, illuminating your room.

You wonder if the castle already knows.

You wonder if Loki will return, intending to punish you for insolence. It would be deserved.

And as minutes continue to pass by, you decide that sitting idly for guards to show up is useless. You look at yourself in the mirror and nearly gasp from the shock of what you see.

A bright bruise has spread across your once gentle neck. It's hideous and stands out in rough patches of red and dark purple cascading across your skin. Even worse, your eyes are bloodshot, bright red contorts the color of your eyes to look unlike anything normal.

All that you realize by looking at yourself is this: you are hideous.

So, you turn away from your reflection and pull on a cloak, ensuring it is clasped around your throat hiding the fresh wounds from sight. You needed fresh air, a garden or some time away from a room that contains hazardous memories.

As you leave the door, you have no plan on where you intend to go. You roam, aimlessly. Perhaps the kitchens for food, because as a grumbling erupts from your stomach, you realize that you had not eaten since breakfast. Another part of you longed to retreat into parts of the castle others rarely do: the library, the observatory, the portrait hall.

Instead, you find yourself on a similar trail as before. Winding through halls and toward the Allmother's gardens.

But as you continue down corridors, the more lost you get. The halls all look similar, with large pillars and stone walls, and they all connect in a labyrinth you have yet to learn. Finally, you come to a dead end and a doorway. Intrigued you walk closer, desperate to know what's on the other side.

As you open the door, you look behind you to make sure no one is there, then you slip inside.

A magnificent room.

Greens, Golds, Blacks, decorated with elaborate furniture. A large staircase leads to what seems to be a personal library, perhaps a study even, as there are lines of bookcases.

You tiptoe up the stairs and to the book shelf, inspecting the titles there. Your fingers trace the wood shelves as you continue walking. On the opposite side of the room, another door leads to a balcony that overlooks the gardens, and farther past that, you can see rooftops and spiraling trees beyond the castle gates. The view is breathtaking. It's miles of Asgard

You step onto the terrace, tugging the cape around your shoulders closer as the night air wafts over your skin. Resting your hands against the railing, you look over the garden, realizing that it is lit up by enchanted spherical lanterns. Your eyes study the gardens below you, you can hear the buzzing of bugs traveling across the garden. Then, there's another noise. A masculine intake of breath. A familiar sound.

Then, you spot him, his pale skin and raven hair shining in the moonlight. Leaning against a large hedge, his dark eyes rove over a woman's form as she stands naked in front of him, her dress pooled at her feet. Her skin gleams under the lights and Loki's ravenous gaze. As his eyes watch her, his hands rub thoughtfully against his chin. Then, without warning, the girl reaches forward to Loki's pants and begins undoing them in a familiar motion.

It is a sharp realization.

This is your husband, a man into coquetries. Is this what he wants from a wife, a woman bathing naked in moonlight to service him?

She drops to her knees and looks up at Loki as her hands rest against his pants.

Is this to be your life? Watching your husband do as he wants? Take what he wants?

Without even realizing it, a tear escapes you. Quickly you swat it away, frustrated with your fragile state, frustrated with your situation, frustrated with the years that are being taken from you.

Then, as if he can hear your thoughts, Loki looks up and spots you. His eyes narrow on the tears now running down your cheeks. His face is taut, angry, perhaps from being seen and interrupted.

Your hands grasp the railing as the woman begins to pull his pants down, and he watches you, as if trying to communicate something.

But you realize, he's just reminding you of the truth. You are nothing to him.

And with that thought, that there is truly no one in the world who cares for you, makes you flee.

You run down the stairs and out the door, not even pausing as the cape catches on something. Before you have a second, you crash into a hard chest.

You look up and find Thor peering over you, his smile alight with life. His arms carefully grasp your shoulders, using you as a pedestal to straighten himself.

"Sister!" He bellows as if you were not in front of him, his cheeks ruddy and cerulean eyes perky from his evening activities. "Why are you roaming the halls so late?"

You smile tightly and move around him, "I have to go," you tell him, trying to avoid his eye contact. Praying he cannot see tears that have left stains in their wake.

He jerks on your wrist suddenly, though it is gentler than you anticipated it would be. "What happened to your neck?" You chance a glance, his way, to find that his smile has dimmed and his eyes have grown soft. Your free hand touches your collar finally realizing that the cloak was missing, likely left behind in your hasty retreat. "What did my brother do?"

You shake your head and attempt slither out of his grasp, determined to continue on your escape. Anywhere was better than here.

"Brother," a familiar voice says from behind you. "Thank you for finding my wife."

You look at Thor, your muscles have frozen in place as your eyes widen, begging him to let go of you.

Thor's pale eyebrows knit in frustration, his face ashen and mouth tense, as he looks between you and his brother. You take a deep breath and exhale, shaking your head in the smallest motion. From the pained expression he gives you, you can tell he knows the last thing you want is for him to make a scene.

"Loki…" he starts, his voice grave, and finally letting you go. "What have you done?"

Loki's harsh gaze then falls upon you, watching you choke back tears as you push passed both brothers. Your lungs heave while your mind races to control itself. Pleasure and disappointment flicker through you when Loki does not even try to stop you with anything but a withering glare.

As you hastily pace down the corridors you continue to hear their conversation reverberating and surrounding you.

"Have you gone mad, Loki?" Thor asks lucidly, all evidence of his drunkenness gone.

"Perhaps you are," Loki volleys back in spite, "if you recall, her family was ex-.."

"That doesn't give you the right!"

"Oh, but it does. She is my wife after all, my puppet to play with, my strings to pull."

You block out the rest of this torture and run, the skirts of your dress flutter behind you as you race down hallway after hallway. When suddenly, you find your original destination, great clusters, lush life. Luminescent bugs sparkle across the night sky and... soft crying in the distance.

You tiptoe towards it, realizing Loki's conquest lay in waste on the garden floor, pulling at the tatters once called a dress. Your breathe catches in your throat. Her dark skin glows in the moonlight, soft and supple, her dark hair falls in ringlets past her shoulders. And her eyes, while red rimmed, are the lightest shade of grey you had ever seen.

Beautiful.

Sympathy and empathy shutter through you as you recall your own evening. While heated jealousy warms itself into your heart, you realize he preyed on her.

When she finally notices you, her shoulders tense.

"My Lady," she begins, climbing to her feet and pulling the drab colored dress in her hands, stiffly curtsying. A white apron lays on the floor beneath her. "Please forgive my appearance, I was just on my way to the kitchens. Can I fetch you something?"

You raise a hand, effectively stopping her. "There is nothing to forgive and nothing I need. Is there something I can do for you?"

She quickly shakes her head and her shoulders begin to quiver. "You are too kind, my Lady. I should be going."

You reach for the ground and pull up her apron, handing it to her. Her eyes widen and she takes a step back, shaking harder even as you let it hang between you. Then, she snipes it from your grasp, tying it around herself in a fluid, haste motion.

As she continues pass you, her shoulders hunched and head bowed, you realize how ashamed she must be.

"If he comes near you again, tell me."

Her puffy eyes find you over her shoulder, lips turned down and cheeks stained red. She simply nods before continuing on.

Then you continue forward, realizing now why a part of you longed to come back. Realizing a mere few hours later that you had come to a decision.

And, as you enter the decrepit space you find the old nurse already waiting for you. Patiently, hands clasped in front of her.

Her eyes, colored so like your own, light when you enter and a small smile graces her lips. As if knowing you would be back so soon.

"I want revenge."


	6. Closer - The Plan

"Are you sure?" She tepidly asks, careful to keep her voice soft and subtle. Her eyes scrutinize you, as if your entire being lay bare for her to read.

"I am."

As you continue forward, the woman takes a step back. She squints her eyes, assessing something past you, then nods her head.

"Stay there," she advises. "This may feel odd."

With that warning, she bows her head and a pale glow emits from her body. She lifts up her palms, and, suddenly, the air ripples in a vortex that erupts into different colors: a restless red, a blurred blue, and glimmering green, while a gust of wind whips your hair.

The leaves in the trees rustle, the water in the bath waves.

You squeeze your eyes shut to block out the dizzying landscape that flickers through the air. Nausea sweeps through you; if you dare to open your mouth, anything that is inside would violently spew out.

Then, everything stops and calmness spreads.

You open your eyes and your mouth drops open, immediately curiosity weaves across your consciousness. Everything has changed. Turning in circles, you see the woman smiling from the corner of your eyes, the shock must be evident on your face. Gone are the decrepit trees, overgrown hedges, and ashen tiles. The water is crystal blue, with a fountain spewing water into the night sky. The marble beneath your feet is so clean you can see your puzzled expression gaping back at you. The trees are trimmed and bright green, flowers and fruits dangling from low branches.

You spin to the woman, and before you can even ask the question, you realize for the first time that there are a lot more people around, patiently watching you, careful to not make a quick move as if you would strike them down if they dare to blink.

"What-What is this?" You stutter out, taking in the people around you.

A young girl snickers from your left. You realize then that she has the features of a light elf from Alfheim. Dark almond eyes, shining blonde hair, and tipped ears.

"Alwyn!" The nurse snaps.

The girl's eyes go wide, though a small smile still draws from her lips. What is a light elf doing here?

Then, you notice that all those around you are from different realms. There's even a dwarf of Nidavellir.

"I guess it's time we introduced ourselves," the woman says. "You can call me Freya."

XxXxX

 _"Princess!" A voice called, its familiar deep timbre reverberated down the stone halls._

 _You pause and motion to the Vanir guards that flank you, stilling them in your route to the Throne room._

 _"We should continue, My Princess," Björn, the captain of the garrison advised in clear distaste._

 _You rolled your eyes at him and shook your head. Father could wait at least one minute longer. Turning around, you discovered Prince Thor taking long strides toward you._

 _You gave yourself a small moment to admire him. He truly was a specimen to behold and the fact that you were to marry him made your heart flutter._

 _"My Prince," you greeted, as Thor stopped in front of you. His normally cheerful features were haunted with rigid, tense lines. You, in-turn, curtsied, with an unguarded and genuine grin. "I was just headed to the throne room to see my father. Would you care to join me?"_

 _A shadow to your left grabbed your attention. The familiar silhouettes of Thor's companions, the Warriors Three, moved along the walls, their hands grasping weapons. Almost as if they were circling your group. Your guards move subtly, their feet shuffling into a strategic alignment, realizing a possible threat._

 _When you glanced back to Thor, you re-assessed him. Your smile fading, when you recognized his demeanor, and you stood to full height._

 _"Princess," Björn warned from behind you. "Go find your mother."_

 _You furrowed your eyebrows, noticing that Thor traded his typical daily garb for his battle armor, and in his hand was Mjönir, the Prince's famous hammer. This was the first time you had seen it. Well, first time in person. You swallowed a heavy form of dread as you looked at the hulking metal, you had heard tales of the destruction it could cause. Leveling mountains in its wake if Thor wished it._

 _"Tell me, did you think your family would get away with it?" A feminine voice asked from your left, Lady Sif's long sword glistened in the light._

 _"I am afraid to not-" You're cut off by Thor's heavy grip wrapping around your forearm and dragging you closer to him. You stumbled slightly from the force and surprise, unfamiliar with being treated with such disregard. "Unhand me."_

 _"We will escort you to the throne room." He stated gruffly, tugging you again, though a flash of remorse flickered across his cerulean eyes. You tried pulling your wrist from his grasp only for him to tighten his hold._

 _Before you even recognized what was to happen, metal scraped and a heavy gaits shuffled behind you._

 _"Relinquish the Princess." Björn dictated behind you, as his sword danced close to Thor's leather chest plate._

 _Then Hel broke loose. Thor swung his hammer and drove the captain backward in a flash of lightening, pushing you to the ground as he used his other hand to make work of another man._

 _You scrambled to your feet quickly, a voice inside of you screaming for you to run. But you watched in horror as the men that were at your sides were cut down in graceful, languid blows._

 _"Go," one of your guards shouted. You gave them one parting glance, the Warriors Three making quick work of each one, then you turned on your heel, gathering your skirt and racing down the hallways._

xXxXx

In total, there are seven people that have surrounded you, evaluating you.

Two Vanir, a pair of light elves, a dark elf, a dwarf, and one Æsir. Then, after introductions are made, Freya tells her story. A ghost that has haunted her since childhood, though has been left behind in history to die.

As a child, she grew up in the Vanaheim court - long before your time.

Freya was known for her beauty, her wit, her intellect. She was already nearing age of consent when her sister was born. As the girl grew older she too was known for her beauty and intelligence. But this girl had something else, a sort of naïveté that welcomed crooked, violent, and manipulative suitors. Freya was already promised to Asgard, and when the future Allfather came for her, he found her sister, aged into a beautiful Goddess.

"Before I knew it, Odin had twisted himself into Frigga's heart. And my sister- my baby sister, believed the tales he told her. About our father, about me." Frigga quiets for a moment, her hands begin to shake so she brings them to her mouth, tracing the age lines the puckered around her lips. Her eyes have grown heavy with memories. "My family could do nothing but let her go. She became queen, the Allmother. It hurt, of course, but I didn't want power or to rule. I simply wanted a quiet life. Once Frigga was swept to Asgard, it was like we were just a figment of her imagination. A part of her past that she wanted no part of." Freya takes a stuttering breath in, tenses her shoulders then exhales. "It was long before your time, I'm afraid. Most people have forgotten all about it."

"That's horrible," you express after a few moments of silence.

Alwyn then declares, "The Allfather has done many terrible things." You look at the light elf and her companion, Bruynn. "Many folk whisper about them, but are too petrified to actually do anything about it."

"I was," Bruynn agrees, his hand grazes through his beard as his eyes glaze over. "Until you."

"Me?"

"You've given us hope that people will see," Alwyn explains, her eyes growing round and glistening in the moonlight. "If the Allfather could do this to you, he would do it to anyone."

"You're mistaken. My parents were traitors," you remind them. "There's no love left for me in Asgard."

"Traitors?" The Æsir answers from behind you. You peer over your shoulder to peek at him for the first time, but the shadows cover his face. "Is that what you truly believe?"

"Vídarr," Freya warns, as the man steps into the light.

"Of course not," you instigate boldly, scoffing at his mere suggestion. "It's what they made the realms believe."

The Æsir, Vídarr, scoffs and shakes his head. His light eyes and bright hair, would make him attractive to any woman, but his frigid, arrogant demeanor repulses you.

"We are not here to argue," Freya cuts in and then takes your hand. "My dear, there are some things we must ask of you." Your eyes grow wide and palms begin to swelter, though you remain still.

"Then ask."

Freya smiles warmly, and in that grin, you see a resemblance to Frigga. Kind, caring, beautiful.

"First, you must never speak of this outside this alcove."

"Why?"

"It's enchanted," Alwyn interrupts excitedly. "So, the Gatekeeper cannot see what happens in here. If you spoke outside of here, well… he'd be able to hear you."

Heimdel. How did the all-seeing, all-hearing Asgardian escape your mind? He looked for treason, sniffed it out like a hound carefully waiting for plots be revealed. "How? How could you trick him?"

Freya smiles serenely, "Surely, you realize that Frigga's powers developed from her Vanir lineage. It is why she is one of the strongest sorceresses in Asgard, why she was able to bless powers upon her son."

Vídarr scoffs again at the mention of Loki.

You nod, "Of course, the Vanir were known for their enchantments."

"Are," the old woman corrects with a patient smile. "And who do you think taught her some of what she knows? You could be taught the same enchantments."

You shake your head, "I possess no talent for sorcery. There have been no inclinations I could."

"Aye," the woman agrees. "But have you ever tried?"

Well, no. You have not. But that was more due to your parents' aversion for it. The possibility of actually learning, actually practicing magic, brought a fleeing thought of pleasure to your mind.

"I have not," you admit.

"Perhaps in time, you can learn." She says warmly, then continues. "Dear child, there is something else we must ask of you. Something you must do." Her voice grows grave and the corners of her lips pull down. Finally, she reaches for your hand and maintains a grasp on them, holding them steady, tightly, as if hoping that her own touch is enough to ground you to the conversation and prevent you from floating away.

"Anything," you consent, tensing your shoulders and preparing for the worst.

"You must make the Dark Prince fall in love with you."

You laugh, thinking it a joke. When no one else shares in your humor, your smile falters. "Loki loves nothing."

"Everyone loves something," Freya disagrees cautiously.

"Perhaps he loves mischief and destruction. But believing him able to care for me is foolish and unwise."

"I told you she would not do it," Vídarr taunts.

"Stop it, Vídarr," Alwyn utters. "We will be with you through it, Princess. We will make sure no harm comes to you, swear it on the Nine."

You shake your head at the mere possibility of what they are suggesting. The man just held you against the door by your neck, watched in cruel fascination as life slipped from you, as he tormented you. Watched your tear stained face pass him in the corridors, witnessed him use a kitchen maid for his own twisted pleasure.

"I wouldn't even know how to begin." You admit with a sad smile, "No one has ever loved me like that."

"All of Vanaheim loves you, the rest of the Nine sympathize you." Alwyn says softly, "Please, don't despair."

"He is an awful man," you finally announce, honestly.

"They all are," Freya declares, "At least he does not pretend to be a sheep." When you say nothing more, and simply lower your eyes to the ground ignoring everyone around you, she continues, "If you are truly against this, we will not ask it of you. It is simply a request to help further our goal."

"And what of the rest, surely I can know the plan if you ask this of me."

Freya shakes her head, "The less you know, the more valuable you are. Trust in us, Princess. It is all we ask." She then hands a piece of jewelry to you. You carefully accept the gift and look at it, realizing that it is your mother's necklace, or something similar to it. Roses of Vanaheim intertwine into a locket. You grasp the metal tightly, not wavering as it digs into your palm, and nod.

"Okay," you agree in a defeated whisper. "I will do it."

Suddenly, all the people around you shrink, as if their plan hinged on your consent. Deep breaths litter the air as they take a step back, and walk to other areas of the bath, leaving you and Freya.

Freya comes near you and puts both her hands on your tense shoulders. "Calm, darling. Nothing will happen to you, by this I swear." She looks into your eyes, fierce with her words. You almost believe her.

Though no one could promise you safety, not in this world.

She then summons a vial in her hands, carefully shielding it from others' view. "I'm sure you know that the Allfather has demanded an heir from your union. Motherhood changes allegiances."

"I do not plan on permitting him-"

"He does not need your consent to slither to your bed, he has been ordered by his father." Freya cuts you off. "I have no doubt he resents Odin nearly as much as you. But still, this will prevent a child. One drop in your morning tea is all you need."

You assess at the vial containing a clear liquid. You unscrew the cork and smell, recognizing the scents of lavenders and berries.

"If you need us, we will always be draped in the shadows."

"Budding in the light," you continue, understanding dawning in your heart at her words.

Those are their code words, to summon them, to let others know who they are.

Frigga may have said you were her family, but you had a feeling that you had just been adopted into another.

Later in the night, just as you leave the garden, Vídarr stops you in your trail. He approaches you carefully, arms crossed at his chest. Then he steps close to you, leaning down so you were on the same level. His eyes lock to yours. "Do not submit to him. The God of Mischief loves chaos. Remaining impassive will do nothing to pique his interest."

A frown settles on your lips. "I was taught that a wife should always submit to her husband."

"And this man is a serpent, willing to strike back at any who allow him. You aren't prey, you are his wife."

"You seem to know him well," You say, letting the rest of your question hang in the air.

Vídarr grins, as an unsettling glint graces his features. "I like to think he and I are similar, Princess."

As you leave the garden nearly an hour later, you realize that two choices lay in front of you. Either you slink back to your room, obsessing over where to go from here. Or confront the problem now. While the words and comforts of the rebellion stay shrouded around you. While you have the poise and strength, the gumption to lay waste to him.

You're weak, exhausted. Your skin raw and nerves frayed.

You slump back to your room as indecisiveness sweeps through. Every second you come to a new decision, even as you push open your door, there is a small voice telling you to find a way to him.

When you enter though, candles are lit, the fireplace is roaring and your bed has already been dressed down. Then, you see him there, his eyes watching the flames of the fireplace, and your heart stammers. Loki turns to face you, shadows covering half of his face.

"Princess," Loki acknowledges, warily. He stands rigid, as you tread forward closer to him. Your hands grab your skirts like it is an armor, gathering your courage. How dare he be here after the events from earlier this evening. The air in your chambers is thick and cold. Unsafe. Walking closer to him makes your pulse race, your bruises ache, your body protest. How are you ever to be with him again?

How are you to make him fall in love with you?

Your voice is marble, hard, sharp, lacking empathy. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

A haunting smirk traces his lips. "I confess, it would be a lie to refute that I have been here for some time."

"And I confess, I did not expect you to be here at all."

Loki squints at you for a moment, then tilts his head. "I felt that I should check on you."

Your lips form a snarl, "After you attacked me or after what I witnessed in the garden?"

Loki's jaw clenches for a brief moment, likely holding back his temper. "You do not know what you saw."

"I saw enough. Particularly when I found the maid on the garden soil, tears spilling down her cheeks and dress in tatters."

Loki stalks closer to you. His eyes rove over your form, so you stand taller, measuring up to the woman you are. "So, I am just a monstrous beast then?"

"No. A beast can be tamed," you snap. He stops moving and drowns you in cold, calculated attention. "But, please continue Liar God. Tell me that I am wrong, that I am stupid. A stupid Princess with stupid hopes who will let you beat and torture her." Your hoarse voice hangs in the air as his eyes flicker at your words. Your throat constricts, dry and sore, the bruises fighting against your words. But, Loki says nothing, his lips pressed firmly together. "Or, has your silver tongue turned to lead?"

He finally comes close enough to touch you, but when he reaches out, his palm simply hovers over the bruises on your throat. You flinch, unable to hold on to your fabricated bravado, and his hand drops immediately. When you peek at him, his expression is guarded, careful. So, you continue to press your luck, let go of all the thoughts that have plagued you since your betrothal was announced.

"I am your wife," you whisper, echoing Vídarr's argument from earlier. Loki's nostrils flare at your words, and you believe to hear his sharp inhale. "I know you do not love me that you never could. But I deserve your respect. I have done nothing to have lost it and everything to have gained it. And yet, you delight in my humiliation. Revel in my loneliness. You promised to respect me at the Alter before the Norns. Promised to forsake others. Yet you treat me, like… I don't…" You finish lamely, your eyebrows wrinkling in confusion trying to make sense of your tirade and hold back tears. You will not let him see you cry. Never again. You swear it.

Silence spreads throughout the room, louder than your words. When you finally look back at Loki, you see his frown, his skin paler than normal, looking at you with a different type of regard that you have not seen since a time long ago.

After a few moments he takes a lock of your hair and tucks it behind your ear. A shiver passes through you at his nearness, though he is careful to not touch you. He notices your reaction as soon as it runs through you.

"I apologize," he states finally, then leans forward his hands landing on your neck.

You tense immediately, your eyes growing wide as fearful voices ring through your head, warning you. As you begin to push him away, a soothing energy travels from his hands onto your skin. Suddenly, the discomfort is gone and you are able to breathe easier. No longer constricting yourself to shallow breaths, you inhale deeply. Your eyes and his are locked in a trance, as he prudently cures your throat.

You drop your gaze to the ground, try swallowing, amazed to find that it does not hurt. Loki moves forward then, his hand cupping your throat and his thumb softly padding over the skin, waking goosebumps in its path. When you glance back to him you notice that he is transfixed on you. He leans forward, his eyes examining your throat. Then, he straightens and moves past you, not giving a backward glance as he exits your bed chamber.

* * *

For those of you who don't know, I also have posted this story on my AO3 profile. Sometimes I forget to upload here. I'm so sorry.

As always let me know your thoughts!

Tumblr: BottledMichelle


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